Swords and Sorcery
by Marching Madly Onward
Summary: Archer stands against the mighty Berserker for what is certain to be his last battle, his greatest battle. His mind stretches out into infinite.


Author's Notes: This story contains spoilers for all routes of _Fate/Stay Night_, although the spoiler fodder is particularly prevalent for the _Unlimited Blade Works_ and _Heaven's Feel_ routes. Of course, seeing as how my only real experience with the franchise lies in the animated adaptation, I may not hit on the little nuances, like Archer's character.

Author's Notes #2: It's also worth noting that this story doesn't necessarily take place in any of the traditional story branches. Consider another wacky parallel universe or some such. Either way, it's not particularly important in the long run.

Author's Notes #3: There must always be a three.

_Swords and Sorcery_

I can't believe it has come to this. I set out to kill him, yet here I stand, the only thing staving off a certain and brutal demise. That particular demise has come in the form of Berserker.

That name has been no more appropriate than in this moment. The floodgates have opened and now the entire city stands all but defenseless against the torrent of his bloodlust. That God damned Assassin…

If only I'd killed him two days ago, none of this would have happened. I thought I had seen the last of him after firing my hunting sword, the Hrunting, when he made an attempt on Rin's life. Thanks to the link we share, borne of the mana I used to conjure it, I rushed to the foolish conclusion that a hit meant a kill. If only I'd realized that he had sacrificed his right arm, taking the blow so as to end its dogged pursuit, maybe I would have chased him down and finished the job. Maybe that freakish parody of a skull would have been smashed in, instead of appearing amidst the gloom to murder Illya.

I couldn't protect her. I should be used to that by now. So many times I've thrown myself—mind, body, and soul—into that seemingly noble but ultimately futile role of "hero." And every time I've been disappointed, be it in myself, my powers, or those around me. There's a reason the Epic Spirits hail from days long past. There are no more heroes.

That makes it all the more maddening. I can hear him spewing some idealistic drivel from behind me—something about how he wants to fight, that it's his duty to carry on in place of the people who aren't here anymore. As if he can fight. He can barely stand. I should cut those legs out from under him.

But I can't. I like to think it's the great giant before me. I like to think it's because there's still a bit of decency. (Old dreams die so much harder than anything else in this twisted universe.) I taste the lies on my tongue. I'm not doing this for any high-minded ideal. I'm doing this because I'm selfish and it makes me happy.

I want to see her smile. I want to see her move, to dance, to walk. I want to give her the life she never had the chance to have. It was stolen from her—stolen by the backward ways of the Magi, or her original family, or the nest of vipers that would have taken their place. She showed the world nothing but kindness. And the world gave her all its worst vices.

It's nothing but hubris. The world seems determined to fill her life with every type of suffering imaginable. Yet I would go against that. It wouldn't be the first time.

I just can't stand it. It's not fair.

I almost laugh in spite of myself, Projecting my old two-tone friends into my hands as I tuck and roll to avoid Berserker's crude cudgel. I land a blow upon his exposed abdomen, accomplishing nothing more than a grating sound akin to metal-on-metal and a vibration I feel in my bones. I chastise myself. I should know better. His skin is like iron.

I leap away from him, but not too far. I can't afford to let that fool think I'm outmatched and throw himself into the thick of this. His powers haven't advanced enough to be anything more than a stain on Berserker's blade. He doesn't realize (I'm not sure he ever will) but his very existence is an inconvenience, at the very best.

Berserker wheels. I don't have enough time to discard my falchions and call up a bow and arrow. So I'll make due with what I have. Reinforcement, my oldest spell, comes to me, flowing into my blades. They grow large, looking less like weapons and more like the wings of angels. The irony of someone like me, a hypocrite and a killer, holding them is almost enough to kill me with irony.

I push it from my mind. Too long have I been distracted by my own angst and rage. I came here for the sake of denying my own existence. But, in no time at all, I remembered what had put me here in the first place.

It was her. It had always been her. I gave my life to save her and in a roundabout, accident sort of way, I wound up saving the world as a side effect. That was what made me eligible for the Throne of Heroes in the first place. It was that same drive—to protect her and the world she loved so much—that made me accept the black pact.

For the longest time, I cursed that decision. I grew selfish, thinking only my own pains. It's true that I have borne innumerable pains, crafting countless blades that I will never hold. Yet that all pales in comparison to her hardships. I've only myself to blame. I chose my lot in life. Hers was forced upon her. All hands were raised against her.

So that's why I've come here and buried my blades in Berserker's shoulder, shearing off both arms and even a chunk of his chest. Even Hercules can't survive a wound like that. He sinks to his knees with an agonized groan.

I drop the enhanced blades. They're useless now, twisted and mangled by his iron skin. I leap back again, my knees nearly buckling under me. I've used too much mana. I'm exhausted. The constant Projecting has done little to help. But it's all I can do against him. I've already taken three of his lives with little more than a split second between strikes to improvise a new weapon. I still have four more to go.

A rumble reaches my ears and my body, resonating in the hollows of my body. Hercules rises again thanks to that blasted Noble Phantasm. A smell not unlike rot reaches my nostrils. It's strange to think flesh returning should remind me so strongly of flesh disappearing.

What am I doing?

He's almost on top of me by the time my mind comes back to me. I curse between clenched teeth as I move to avoid him, but it's already too late. My body move so as to avoid the brunt of the blow, but the blade still finds purchase. My right leg is a ruin, torn from the knee to my toes. An involuntary scream claws its way up my throat, finally slithering out of my mouth.

In that moment, I know I'm going to die. It's not the death that bothers me, really. I've been killed countless times. It's this particular death that fills me with such despair. I don't want to leave her alone, not again.

I swore I would always be there for her, yet I left her all the same. I left her to destroy the likes of Kirei and the Grail, things that would only use her for their own filthy ends. She waited for me. She waited so long, even though it hurt. She waited even though I left her with my child. I abandoned her because I had to play hero and save the world.

Better late than never, some might say. I don't believe in second chances, but coming back here made me think that maybe, just maybe, I could stay Fate's hand, even if only slightly, if only for a day. I began to dream that mad dream on the fourth day, when it became clear that this was not the same War that forged me.

It was with this revelation firmly in hand that I was able to follow a path toward a new goal. I could no more deny my own existence than revive the dead. My fate had been set in stone. I had joined with the world to become something beyond space and time. She was not such a thing. The strings of Fate could be severed.

So I resolved to become her sword. I would cut down all those evils that assailed her. Shinji was the first. Kirei followed not long after. Even Assassin, Zouken's arm, came to an end when he ran afoul of Lancer, who buried his weapon in his black heart. But Zouken remains.

I haven't changed anything at all. Here I sit, clutching my wound like a child who has skinned his knee while the Berserker bears down upon me. It's the perfect opportunity for the simpleton to play hero.

A dull "clink" reaches my ears as an ineffectual arrow ricochets off of Berserker's hide. Both of our otherworldly eyes spin to look upon that frail, human thing with the bow in its hands. I almost bury my head in my hands.

Berserker turns on what he perceives to be the greater threat. His roar rattles the forest around us. The boy's face drains of color as he becomes acutely aware of just what he's done.

As stupid as the boy is, he has his uses, if indirectly. With the boy firmly in his mind, Berserker will know no other target. Such is the nature of the Berserker. One thing at a time.

_I am the bone of my sword._

_Steel is my body and fire is my blood._

The energy surges through my hand as I Project a bow befitting of my class. The heat rushes through my other limb, drawing a sword out of my mind and to the palm of my hand. Caladbolg II twists itself eagerly, ready to serve me. It takes the shape of something that could pass for an arrow. I take aim.

_I have created over a thousand blades._

The arrow takes flight. A moment before the Berserker's slab would have ground him into paste, my missile splits his skull. The boy has enough presence of mind to move out of the way. I'm relieved. I would be more than cross to know that I had gone through so much trouble, only to see him crushed to death by falling Servant.

And then there were three.

_Unknown to death_

_Nor known to life_

My mind burns with the sensation of another presence approaching. I curse my luck at first, only to grow quiet when I place the Servant. It is Rider. The great, unyielding flow of mana that is her Master burns like an inferno. She is almost here.

I don't want her to see me like this. I don't want her to see me die.

_I have withstood pain to create many weapons._

There are so many things I want. I don't want to leave her again. I want to say by her, to protect her. I want to hunt Zouken down so that he never has the chance to hurt her again. I may have taken his hand, but his fangs remain. All too easily can I imagine him turning another of the living Masters. There is also Caster to consider. So much remains uncertain. I wish it didn't have to be his way. I wish I had fought smarter, so that I could look over her for the remainder of the War.

In a way, I can. It still turns my stomach.

"Boy!" My voice sounds strange to my own ears. It always will. At this point, I've grown so accustomed to my not-being that to be here, to drink, to breath, to walk—those are the strange and the alien. Protect her? I'm not sure if he can. Love her? You can't simply tell someone to do that, especially not when one considers how close he has become with both Saber and Rin. It hits me with such force that I wonder how it didn't occur to me at first.

_Yet those hands will never hold anything._

"Cherish her."

He understands. No more needs to be said. I don't need to tell him who I am or who he will become. I don't need to tell him about the things I've seen. He will do everything in his power to make my last wish a reality. He's no Grail, but I feel oddly at ease.

I don't have much time left. What little mana I have left will be spent on my last act. I couldn't tell him those things even if I needed to. This is my last stand. I will have to rely on him to take my place and stem the rising tide of evil once I am gone. It's better than nothing.

Berserker wheel on me dangerously, alive and enraged. I can't help but smirk. As fearsome as he is, his fate is sealed. My trump card will take him out of this world. I almost feel remorse for him in the end, bound to fight someone else's battles as he dies time and time again. We are not so different. Even so, for the sake of the girl I have given so much for, I will give the War this sacrifice. He chose his path just as I did. There is no guilt.

_So as I pray…_

In my final moments, before my essence unravels to capture the two of us in a place where I am God, I hear her voice. I can't look away. I allow myself the slightest indulgence.

I glance skyward and see an angel descending on white wings. She calls my name, or rather the name of the me that was. It fills me warmth. It fills me with sorrow. I almost weep. This is the last time she will ever see me. This is the last thing I will ever do for her. I will give my life—or whatever it is I now possess—for the sake of the young man who has become her world.

It is for the best. She will be happiest this way. Isn't that what I've been fighting for this whole time?

"_**UNLIMITED BLADE WORKS**_!"


End file.
